


Chanson de la plus haute tour

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: A Letter In Your Writing Doesn't Mean You're Not Dead [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Character Death, F/F, Gen, Other: See Story Notes, generally disturbing, naughty bad magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you ever really know anyone?  You do not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chanson de la plus haute tour

“If you're going to smoke on my property, you can offer me a cigarette.”  
“I didn't know you smoked.”  
“Surely, you've smelled it on me.”  
“Yeah, but that-” then Spike smiles, lips closed around his cigarette, and holds up one finger in front of his mouth.  
“Yes. Quite.” He takes the cigarette that Spike offers. “Thank you.”  
“Better manners, anyway.”  
“It costs nothing to be polite.”  
“Speaking of cost...”  
“I thought you said you didn't want anything.”  
“I said I didn't want money.” Spike lights a new cigarette with the end of the old one, drops the end and grinds it into the pavement with his heel. He shrugs, pulling his coat around himself. “I'm feeling moody. Weird kind of night.”  
He almost sniffs the air, but stops himself. “I suppose.”  
“You'd know, wouldn't you? If there were something on the air.”  
He shrugs. “What do you want?”  
“Tell me something.”  
“What's that?”  
“Tell me a story.”  
He laughs. He can't help it. It comes out as a bark that even startles him. “I'll tell you a story.”

His well-wishers are coming out of the woodwork. He frowns. How exactly is he meant to take this one, though?  
“Heard about the old flame. Does this make you a widow?” Chiaroscuro, under a streetlight stands Spike.  
“Spike.” He'll have to start carrying a crucifix in his pocket.  
Spike raises his eyebrows, and exhales cigarette smoke through his nose. “That's my name- don't wear it out.”  
“How did you find out?”  
“A fellow hears things.”  
“By listening at keyholes, I suppose.”  
“Windows, actually. And I pick things up on the air.”  
“Ah.”  
Spike smiles, human teeth in a face that is eternally that of an insufferable adolescent, and flicks his cigarette end onto the lawn, shaggy and black in the night like the hide of a beast. “You can count on my discretion, though. Shan't breathe a word to anyone.”  
He stares for a moment as the tiny flame on the grass twice glows then fades, pulsing like a breath, then burns out, “Very reassuring. And what, exactly, would you tell them?”  
“This and that.”  
He reaches for his glasses, but they aren't there. He's still waiting for his new prescription. “Relics of by-gone eras though we both may be, I think you'll find that the rest of the world has dragged itself into the twenty-first century. I can't imagine that you'd shock anyone with the revelation that once, long ago, I cultivated some unusual relationships.”  
“That, and other things.”  
“I don't know what you think you know-”  
“Plenty. There isn't much that gets by me. Not like it does, the others. But I'm not one to go telling tales. You'll see.”  
“I suppose you want money.”  
“No, mate. The satisfaction of having something on you that no one else does is quite enough for me.”  
“That's touching.”  
“Call it what you like. All of your little secrets are safe with me, Rupert.”  
He sneers. The expression feels unfamiliar, but strangely comfortable. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”  
Spike smiles back, beatifically. “Exactly. I won't tell a soul.”

In the space of a couple of months, they've become old friends. They have things in common. They know each others' secrets. What else is friendship?  
“What are you going to do, now?” It's not the first time she's asked some version of the question.  
Each time, he answers something like, “Carry on as best I can.”  
“Even though-”  
“One plays the hand one was dealt.”  
“Yeah, but you're the dealer.”  
“Then, I suppose I had better lie in the bed I've made.”  
“Those are a lot of metaphors you've got there. It's almost like you're talking about gambling in bed.”  
“Please. I'm not as young as I was.” He fiddles with his glasses, which he holds in his lap. He's been doing that a lot, lately. It's unattractive and draws attention to the fact that he's not wearing them. He'll have to go to the doctor and get a new prescription. There's still one secret he has left to tell her. It's one she can't figure out on her own. He's made her wait long enough. “I suppose you'd like to know why.”  
“No,” she says, in the smooth, open tone he's come to find both infuriating and anticipated, a pleasurable irritant, “I want to know how.”

He didn't think it was possible, after everything he's seen and everything he's lived through, but with time, there comes a flattening. There comes a flattening of the world. It loses dimension and it loses color, and becomes something not unlike the backdrop to a stage show. At first, he thinks his eyes are failing him, but it's not that. This is all metaphor. It's just poetry. Something's been taken out of the world. Something that can't be put back. Something vital, that was holding a lot other things in or together. The absence hits him all at once, and it's strange, but it's comforting. He's finished. Everybody he used to know is dead, now, so he has no past. Or no tangible trace of a past. And don't artifacts create reality? They do, he thinks as he fastens the second button of his shirt. He undoes it. And another, after that. They really do.

There are people to call. One person. A sister. She's the only one of them left. She went to Canada thirty years earlier, after marrying young. The phone call will be very expensive. The past month's phone bill came the other day; it was confusing. He used to be good with minutiae. All those moldering grimoires, stuffed with fine print. A thousand ways to lose your soul to technicalities.  
“Yes- hello.” Breathe. Don't sound too sad. Nor too relieved. Nor too formal. Nor too sunny. But vaguely sheepish. “Is this Naomi? Naomi, er-” of course he can't remember her married name.  
“That's my mom. Hold on,” says the girl who answered the phone, then she yells, an undulating train of sound, “There's some English guy on the phone.”  
“Hello?” says Naomi when she picks up the phone.  
“Yes. I'm terribly sorry for the intrusion, but I, I'm afraid I have some terrible news.”  
“Is this about my brother?” her voice is tight.  
“Yes. I was a friend of his, when we were young.”  
“He's dead, isn't he?”  
“Well, yes. How did you, er-”  
“How did I know? How could it be anything else?”  
“Well, I'm-”  
“Yes, I know. You're sorry. Thank you for the call.” She hangs up.  
It takes him a moment, but he hangs up on his end. It'd been so long since he'd heard her voice. She sounded older, smoky and husky, almost American. Like a peculiar distortion of American. He runs a finger along his jaw, then abruptly stops mid-motion. His hand is shaking.

After her early shows of support, he'd thought Willow might become more present, but she seems to be keeping her distance. Perhaps she's afraid that grief is catching. People often are. People are often right. The idea is the basis of many enchantments- the transmission of emotional or physical conditions on the air, in the water.  
It's the girlfriend- and he has to stop thinking of her as 'the girlfriend'- Tara, who lingers. Who begins to visit on her own.  
At first, he suspected- well, the obvious. Nothing could be more inappropriate. Especially in his current position. He has to be careful. Young women can be tender, terrifying things, like sea urchins. They hurt and become hurt in such strange ways. He doesn't encourage her. He withdraws, gently, maintaining the warmth that's expected of him. The move he's waiting for her to make goes unmade, and he's glad to see that his ideas about her couldn't have been more mistaken.  
He then suspected simple sentiment. Maudlin solidarity. A kind young lesbian comforting a sad older man in his time of need and newly-ambiguous sexuality. Or worse- sometimes, the young cope with specters of their own future by shining up their elders, polishing them with the glow of youth as scarecrows against old age.  
But again, he's relieved to find that she's not trying to take care of him. In any sense. She's curious. Academically curious. The hints come. After what might be considered, by the casual observer, to be a respectful period of time.  
Over the rim of her mug of tea, she regards him. Her eyes are- he's not sure how to describe them; he's never seen this particular set of the features before. She looks- old. Old, like monuments built untold thousands of years earlier to God knows what. Knowing, but placid, indifferent. In a young face, the expression is horrifying unto disgust.  
“I don't know how you did it.”  
“I just take it one day at a time, I suppose.”  
She doesn't correct him, insist that she said 'did', and not 'do'.  
“It hasn't been easy. If I may be perfectly honest,” he continues. Gilding the lily.  
“It must be hard,” she nods, “Maintaining the illusion. That nothing's really changed. Especially when you can't really talk about it.”  
“Grief is, by nature, personal. Subjective.” He takes off his glasses, begins to clean them with the tail of his shirt.  
She leans forward, her hand reaching out toward his. “No,” she says, “You should use a handkerchief.”  
“Yes. Of course. You're right. It's better for the lenses.”  
“You don't want to scratch them.”  
“No.”

“Are you all right?”  
“I- I don't really feel like discussing it.”  
“No. No. You're right. It's none of my business.”  
He sighs. If he does this now, hopefully, he won't have to do it again. “We knew each other. Well. A long time ago.”  
She doesn't say anything, but continues to look at him, her eyes unbearably large and clear.  
He continues, “I could never tell anyone. Especially not when I was Buffy's Watcher. The consequences would have been dire. Of course, everyone in the Watcher's Council knew. If they didn't know the specific details, they knew enough in broad strokes. It was humiliating, when I returned. After we- after I- after I had killed Randall. After the kind of magic I'd done, and the drugs- but what I'd done with, with him was the worst thing I could have done. He wasn't one of us, you see. You could do whatever you liked, as long as it was with the right people. God, they were such hypocrites. It all came down to a matter of aesthetics, in the end.”  
“Did you love him?”  
He takes off his glasses, but doesn't get as far as cleaning them. He holds them, his hands in his lap. “I'm afraid it's more complicated than that. We hurt each other over the years. Sometimes, merely because it was the only thing to be done. Sometimes-” he looks down, for a little too long, he thinks, “Sometimes, it isn't as simple as loving someone. Or hating them. Sometimes, you become a part of each other, in a way that isn't very nice or even particularly logical. You develop a sympathy that is instant, and all-encompassing. You return to each other again and again out of a kind of instinct, or, or obligation, because you've known each other for so long. Sometimes, you hurt each other because the love you bore one another wasn't enough: love failed, but pain endured. Does this make any sense to you?”  
“It sounds like you're talking about Buffy and Faith,” she says, then seems to think better of it. She reddens slightly.  
“Ah- er, yes. I suppose that's- er- I'm not sure-”  
“No. You're right. They didn't choose to both be Slayers. But you were friends. Even if it didn't last. You had good times.”  
“Yes. We did, once.”  
“Don't be mad at Willow for telling me.”  
“How much does she know, er, how much did she tell you?”  
“Just that you were close, when you were young. Before all the bad stuff happened.”  
“Just the broad strokes.”  
She looks down. “Yeah. I guess.”

“I'm not finding much in this one, either.”  
“Yeah. It's all seeming a little futile.” Tara closes her eyes and massages her brow. “Maybe Giles has some books we could look through.”  
Willow frowns. “I think we should wait a while before we ask. He's going through some stuff right now.”  
“Yeah, I know. Maybe we should go see him.”  
“I don't know- this week is pretty busy. School's going to start soon...”  
“I don't have a lot going on. I could go see him. Just to make sure he's okay. I don't know how much company he's had, lately.”  
“That's a good idea. When you see him, tell him-” Willow looks down, “Tell him-”  
Tara places her hand on Willow's. “I will.”

There are things to dispose of. That's the hardest part about death. The dead leave so much behind, and none of it can be allowed to remain. The feelings that come to the living, those horrible and often absurd feelings, are of some comfort. Those can be held onto. One can moor oneself to them like a boat against the snaking waves. One can break them into smaller pieces and make a pile of them. An edifice. One can call it a house, and move right in.

“Those are some big books you've got there. Are you doing a little light reading? Maybe building a little fort?”  
Shaken from her reverie, Tara laughs, and Willow gently shoves her, shoulder-to-shoulder.  
“It is a little light reading, actually. Just some research, for fun.”  
“Well, you don't have to explain that to me- great big nerd, here.”  
“Well, nerds are cool, now. Do you want to help me?”  
Willow plunks down on the bed across from Tara, the books lying open between them. “You don't have to ask me twice. What are we looking for?”  
Tara smiles at the 'we'. “Um, spells about appearance- like glamours, but stronger.”  
“Industrial strength glamours, huh? Should I look for enchantments to the self, or, oh, like, perception-changing spells?”  
“Anything you find is helpful.”  
“Are you planning something big, for the Equinox?”  
“It's just something I've always been curious about.”  
Willow grins. “You know about curiosity and the cat.”  
Tara kisses that grin onto her own lips. “But satisfaction brought it back.”

“Well, I'm not going to pretend to be sad- does that make me a bad person?”  
“No, Buffy. It's a complex situation,” says Willow.  
“Not really. He was evil. He died. He just died like a, like a-”  
“Like a normal person,” Anya offers.  
“I guess. Yeah.”  
“Evil people die normal deaths all the time. I knew this conjurer, back in my vengeance days, who was supernaturally untouchable; he slipped in the shower. When they found him, he'd been dead for two days, wrapped in his tropical fish shower curtain.”  
Buffy makes a face. “There's an image.”  
“Not completely wrapped in it, like a burrito; he was sort of wearing it, like a cape.”

“Why is there an ambulance at Giles' house? Do you think he's dead?”  
“I don't know, Anya. Just be quiet for a second. Just stay here.”  
“No, I can go with you.”  
“All right.”  
Xander takes her hand, and they walk to the courtyard in front of Giles' house.  
“Is he dead?” Anya asks a paramedic. Xander doesn't even think to be angry.  
“Anya?” comes from inside of the house. It's his voice. Then, as though following his own voice, Giles walks outside. “Anya, Xander? What are you doing here?”  
Before Xander can say that they were just stopping by, Anya exclaims, “Giles! I'm so glad you're not dead. Who's dead?”  
“He's an old friend of mine.”  
“You have friends?”  
“Anya,” Xander says reproachfully, but gently squeezes her hand.  
“Yes, Anya, I do have friends. I seem to have one less, now.”  
“I was going to say that. Thank you for saving me the trouble.”  
“Giles,” says Xander, “who was it?” he looks around to make sure that no one is listening, “Was it something vampire-y?”  
“It's- it was Ethan, Ethan Rayne.”  
“Ethan? Like, 'Turned us into our Halloween costumes' Ethan Rayne? The evil guy? The guy who tried to kill you all those times?”  
“Yes.”  
“What was he doing here?”  
“I'm not entirely sure. He wasn't well. He was angry about the Initiative, about the things they'd done to him, about my betrayal. As he called it. In the end, it was a heart attack. Will you excuse me; I need to make a statement.”  
“He's taking this very well,” Anya says, too loudly, as soon as Giles steps away, “Especially since they were, y'know,” she makes the finger-in-hole gesture.  
“Anya. You couldn't be more wrong. I can't even,” Xander shakes his head, “I can't even begin to describe to you how monumentally wrong you are. An actual monument to your wrongness wouldn't even begin to describe how wrong you are. No. He and Giles were, like, enemies. English old man enemies.”  
“If there's one thing I've learned from all those episodes of Doctor Who you made me watch, it's that sometimes enemies are also having sex.”  
Xander folds his arms over his chest. “The Doctor and the Master were not-”  
She rolls her eyes. “Also, I've been around. Seen some stuff. I'm very good at reading people. You get to be when you're eleven hundred years old.”  
“Yeah, I keep forgetting that.”  
“Because I look so young.”  
He smiles. “Because you look so young.”

“Oh. Oh, no.”  
“We have to call someone. Now.”  
“But how do we explain-”  
“I don't care.”  
“Look,” Willow points at the screen, “He's already calling an ambulance.”  
“I'll call Buffy.”  
“Oh.”  
“What is it?” Tara stops in the middle of dialing Buffy's number, and goes back to where Willow is sitting. There is one less Giles on the screen, and there's a stranger lying on the floor of Giles' living room.  
“It was Ethan. Ethan's dead. I guess when he died, the enchantment broke.”  
Tara says, absently, “I guess so.”

“Why did it have to be this way?”  
“Can you think of any other way it could have been?”  
“You could have just gone away. Just left on your own, or gone when you were sent.”  
“You didn't have to send me away. All those times. So many times. You kept sending me away. There was never any real reason. You woke up one morning, and decided that I didn't suit you anymore.”  
“Ethan, we killed somebody. We killed Randall. Who was your friend. Your great friend from school, whom you'd known more than half your life.”  
“You took something from me, but you didn't give anything back. You left me with nothing; all I could do was create a world around you.”  
“You could have chosen someone more suitable.”  
“I suppose you're right.”

“Are you okay?”  
Tara puts her hand to her head. “Yeah, I'm fine. I just- maybe I need to eat something.”  
Willow takes Tara's hand, smooths her thumb over the back of it, rubs gently between the tendons. “Ya look like you sensed a disturbance in the Force.”  
“No. No. It's not that. It was weird. I can't explain it.”  
“Should I get you a cookie- or, I could go down to the cafeteria and see if they've started dinner?”  
“No. Let's just keep watching. Stay here. With me.”

He hasn't put his glasses back on.  
“Do you remember when we met?”  
“Yes, I do. You spilled your drink on me.”  
“No. That was the second time we met.”  
“And I made you lick it off of me.”  
“'Made' implies that I expressed reluctance to do so. You thought you were so shocking, but you could never go through with anything. You never got very far from where you came from.”  
“I don't suppose I did. So, why would you want to be me?”  
Ethan raises his eyebrows and closes his eyes. His mother used to do the same thing. He wonders if Rupert remembers this. He opens his eyes, sort of half smiles. “I don't really know anymore. At first, it was for revenge, but revenge for what, specifically, I'm not entirely sure. Those ridiculous soldiers couldn't hold me; they couldn't even begin to imagine how to deal with someone like me. They were glorified zoo keepers, used to caging up beasts. No imagination.”  
“No mind for poetry.”  
“I can't tell whether or not you're being arch.”  
“Only partially.”  
“They couldn't understand.”  
Rupert yawns. His glasses fall out of his lap, and onto the floor. “Understand what?”  
“Magic. It has a lot in common with poetry.”  
“I've never understood that, myself.”  
“Are you tired?”  
“Yes. I'm falling asleep. I expect this is your idea of mercy.”  
“I don't think I have one anymore.”  
“I was losing mine, as well.”  
“You never had one.”  
“No, I suppose not. Are you going to be me, now- permanently?”  
“For a while, at least.”  
“It's a thankless job. I don't recommend it.”

“I'll kill you if you hurt Buffy, or any of them.”  
“As though I ever had any interest in damaging your little friends. You were the one who charged into situations and destroyed everything around you.”  
“I'm not blaming myself for this anymore. So, hurry up and get it over with.”  
“I've already done it.”  
“Was it poison, in the tea? Did you actually do it this time, or is this another of your hilarious jokes?”  
“No, a spell. You'll be quite dead in an hour.”  
“I still have time to kill you.”  
“Well, please yourself. We could go out together. It'd be romantic.”  
“Would you please stop talking?”  
“You could make me.”  
Rupert yawns. “Suddenly, I can't be bothered.”  
“We could fuck. You'd just have to lie there.”  
“There are several jokes I could make, but again, I can't be bothered.”

“You know how this is going to end.”  
“Of course I do, Ripper. Christ- I've known how this was going to end since the first time I laid eyes on you. All that rage, all that violence- it has to go somewhere.”  
He shakes his head. “I could never figure out what you were so angry about.”  
“I was talking about you. I was never angry. I went straight to bitterness.”  
“You were bitter even when you were young.”  
“Was I ever young? I can't seem to recall. I feel as though I've always been this old.”  
“It's a shame I don't have a tape recorder on me; I'd never have believed you'd say something like that.”  
“Because of my vanity.”  
“It was your vanity that got us in trouble. You always needed more.”  
“That's greed, not vanity, I think you'll find.”  
“I suppose you're right. A combination of greed and vanity, perhaps.”  
“Is there such a thing? You were a medievalist- surely they had a word for it, back then.”  
“I'd have to check.”  
“You could let me live.”  
“I could. Would you, though?”  
“Let me live? Yes, I think I'd let me live.”  
“No, if it were me?”  
“Would I let you live? How do you know I haven't already decided to let you live?”  
“It's not something you'd do.”  
“It's precisely what I'd do. If I wanted to hurt you, I'd hurt you by letting you live. In fact, I wouldn't have to do much of anything, because you seem to be doing a good job of that yourself, just by continuing to stay alive. Are you happy, Ripper?”  
He takes off his glasses. “What an absurd question. Of course I'm not.”

The two men on the screen look exactly alike. Their clothes are different, but not sufficiently different to be of any help distinguishing one from the other in black and white.  
“So, how do we tell which one is which?”  
Willow sighs. “Something happened to the sound. I turned the microphone volume all the way up, but it's still not working, so we can't even recognize Giles by his voice. I guess we just wait for one of them to do something to the other one, and then,” she makes a vague gesture, “call the police? Call Buffy? How would we even explain this to the police?”  
“We'll worry about that later.”  
“Yeah. Right now, they just seem... talky. They don't even look angry at each other. They're drinking tea. It's so British.” Willow makes a face. “It's weird.”  
“Maybe they really are resolving their differences.”  
“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Either strangle me properly, or let me go.”  
That's the decision, really. The decision his entire life has revolved around, figuratively, and now, does so literally. Strangle Ethan. Do what he should have done years ago, when Ethan first came to Sunnydale. Those horrible meetings, seeing each other again after so many years. The first time, Ethan had merely endangered the lives of everyone Rupert cared about. The second time, Ethan had shown him as he really was: a horrifying fraud, who shouldn't be allowed the society of decent people. That could not be forgiven. Strangle Ethan, and make the revelation complete. He looks up, at no part of the ceiling in particular; he's forgotten where Willow put the camera.  
Let off the pressure. Let Ethan fall back, take his weight on his own feet. Smooth out the distortions in the fabric of the shirt. Anything worth doing is worth doing correctly and fully. Ask him to sit. Make tea for the two of them. Talk to him. About this, about anything. There's a mystery here, even if it's just the banal and easily-solved one of a mid-life crisis. Surely, even people like Ethan are allowed to have those. And people like him, as well. Perhaps this is what Ethan had to do, rather than buy a new car or find some young thing to go with. And for him- maybe this is what he does. Maybe he stops fighting, and just lets go.  
Slowly, he releases his grip on Ethan's shirt. He wiggles his numb fingers, flexing the feeling back into them. Ethan is still close to him. Rupert can feel the heat radiating from him, from his still-warm, still-living body, terrifying and exhilarating. The anger is long-past, but he still feels something of it, prickling and scintillating. Not thinking, he rests a hand on Ethan's shoulder. Something changes about Ethan's face, still his face, himself, looking back at him, but it's so hard to read. He's never seen that look on his own face before. Rupert could move, just an inch, in either direction, life or death, but he takes a breath and says, “Make us some tea. I know you know where everything is. I need to sit down.”

“We should turn them back on. Something could happen.”  
“Giles will take care of it,” Willow says, but she doesn't sound so sure.  
“Willow, someone could get hurt.”  
“No. No, we can't.”  
Tara shakes her head. “I don't understand why you're doing this.”  
“There are things you don't know about- about Giles. About his life before he was a Watcher.”  
“Then tell me.”  
“I can't,” Willow half shrugs, “I don't even know everything. But he was into some pretty bad stuff.”  
“All the more reason to make sure that he's going to be okay.”  
“We can't intrude. Please. Don't make me.”  
“I'm not making you do anything. We should call Buffy, at least. She should know.”  
Willow's voice hardens, like the rain you saw on your window turning to ice overnight. So, when you wake up, you're suddenly faced with this new, cold, blue screen. “Just let Giles do what he has to do.”  
“But someone could get hurt,” Tara repeats.  
“Maybe that's what has to happen.”  
“Willow, I can't believe-”  
“It's not going to be Giles. He'll be fine.”  
“But this other man-”  
“If you could stop someone evil from hurting anyone else, wouldn't you?”  
“Not the way you're talking about stopping him.”  
“He just keeps coming back. If Giles doesn't do something now, then he'll come back again. We almost died, because of him.”  
“Because of Giles?”  
Willow shakes her head. “No, because of this other guy. His name is Ethan. He and Giles were- I don't know what they were, but they did some seriously bad magic together, and- and it needs to be over.”  
“You're talking about murder.”  
“We don't know that. Giles could just-”  
“Convince evil sorcerer guy to renounce his old ways, and turn himself in to the police?”  
“You make it sound kind of ridiculous when you put it into words and say it out loud.”  
“Willow. Turn the cameras back on.”  
“But we can't tell Giles.”  
“Hopefully, we won't have to tell anyone anything. Hopefully, you're right, and Ethan will just-”  
“Go away.”  
“Maybe he'll just go away.”  
“Stranger things have happened.”  
“That's true. They have.”

“It's over.”  
“Well, I suppose you're right about that. Before you do anything violent, though, consider the children who are almost certainly watching us.”  
“I told them to shut off the cameras.”  
“And the young always obey their elders.”  
“I'll kill you.”  
“And yet, you haven't. Not yet.”  
He grabs Ethan by the front of his shirt, but with a lack of conviction that surprises him. It shouldn't really, though- it's different when he's staring into his own face. Though, of course, it isn't really his.

He's- he's not even angry. The fury came, blazed through him, and left. Touching every part of him, illuminating it briefly, and then neatly extinguishing itself. He feels only its absence. The absence of all feeling.  
Except for the odd sense of his past becoming tangible, gelatinous all around him. He could reach out and handle all of the events, all of the people he's experienced, as though in a gallery. Does this make him, now, the curator, or the latest exhibit? He doesn't trust himself to drive, but he does, anyway, because walking would take too long. He needs to be home, now. What he'll do when he gets there, he doesn't know. Ethan's death is a foregone conclusion. He was dead the second he returned, again, to Sunnydale. Six months earlier, it had been enough to give Ethan to the Initiative, to make him someone else's problem, but that time is over. In the interim, he's become old, older than he thought he could be, and he's become ruthless in his old age. He supposes. But was he ever anything else? Was there ever a time when he was what he wanted to be- a crucible aflame with compassion. Turning base obligation into something holy, purifying it and himself.  
Years- decades earlier, he'd sworn that he would keep something of himself, that he wouldn't let himself be subsumed by the life of a Watcher. Not the duties; the life. It was the life that made them monsters. The things that happened when you'd finished doing your job, and you then had to explain yourself. Put into words why you'd made the decisions you had. And, ultimately, delivered a young woman to her doom. That she was dead was not the problem. That the death had not been sufficiently graceful or efficient, or had not happened on schedule. That was the problem. The problem, as always lay in the details; the paraphernalia of tragedy.  
Had he ever been anything else?

“Willow, I need you turn off the cameras.”  
“Why?”  
“Just do it, please.”  
“Okay...” she says, and taps some keys. One by one, the parts of the screen transmitting from each camera go black.  
“I need you two to stay here.”  
“Where are you going?”  
“I'm going back to my home.”  
“What are you going to do?”  
“You needn't worry yourself with that.”  
“But-”  
And he's out the door.

“-But what I was saying to her was, I was saying, the thing about planetary hours is it's not at all intuitive, and what I'm trying to do now is create a more naturalistic practice-”  
“Deirdre, not this hippie nonsense again. The structure is important- look on it as corsetry for the mind: the beauty of the transcendence of the natural form through discipline.”  
“I thought you were into Chaos.”  
“Chaos doesn't mean sloppiness. Or practice indistinguishable from daily life, rendering it useless.”  
“Yeah, but Ethan, you underestimate the power and importance of not just doing magic but living it, and how you could weave it into every second, become a living spell.”  
“Like, going to the toilet, and that's magic, too?”  
“You can make fun all you like, but- hello, who's that?” She points some distance off, at a young man with blond hair, his back turned, in a posture of studied and aggressive boredom.  
“Oh, it's just Andrew. He thinks he's so daring and contrary, wearing straight-legged trousers.”  
“Ethan, it's not-”  
Before she can finish the sentence, Ethan shouts, “Nice trousers” at the young man with the blond hair and the full-body sneer who is not, in fact, Andrew.  
This is somebody new. Anger, automatic and dull, strangles all of the beauty out of the young man's face. Almost all of the beauty. What remains is tinged with uncertainty: the anger has come, but what comes next? He spits, “You what?”  
“Oh,” says Ethan, “I'm sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, Giles. But, then, they ended up killing off him, and Ethan, both, in the comics, so I just don't feel that bad. This story takes place after "The Walls and Windows Have Your Eyes". The 'twist', aside from the identity of the person who actually died is that the events occur in reverse order of how they're written. Because I am that pretentious. The title comes from the poem by Rimbaud of the same name, the one that Ethan quotes in "The Walls and Windows" and one of my personal faves. I am not in any way associated with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and this school is not in any way associated with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. No one paid me to write this nonsense. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.


End file.
